were gone, and he prayed in his throat. Aunt Mercy's "Moltee" rubbed
against me, with her back and tail erect. I pinched the latter, and
she gave a wail. Aunt Mercy passed her hand across her mouth, but the
eyes of the two women were stony in their sockets. Grand'ther ended
his grace with an upward jerk of his head as we seated ourselves.
He looked sharply at me, his gray eyebrows rising hair by hair,
and shaking a spoon at me said, "You are playing over your mother's
capers."

"The caper-bush grows on the shores of the Mediterranean sea,
Grand'ther. Miss Black had it for a theme, out of the _Penny
Magazine_; it is full of themes."

"She had better give you a gospel theme."

He was as inarticulate when he quoted Scripture as when he prayed, but
I heard something about "thorns"; then he helped us to baked Indian
pudding--our invariable Saturday night's repast. Aunt Mercy passed
cups of tea; I heard the gulping swallow of it in every throat, the
silence was so profound. After the pudding we had dried apple-pie,
which we ate from our hands, like bread. Grand'ther ate fast, not
troubling himself to ask us if we would have more, but making the
necessary motions to that effect by touching the spoon in the pudding
or knife on the pie. Ruth and Sally still kept their eyes fixed on
some invisible object at a distance. What a disagreeable interest I
felt in them! What had they in common with me? What could they enjoy?
How unpleasant their dingy, crumbled, needle-pricked fingers were!
Sally hiccoughed, and Ruth suffered from internal rumblings. Without
waiting for each other when we had finished, we put our chairs against
the wall and left the room. I rushed into the garden and trampled the